


Shadow Box Butterfly

by Threshie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angel Blades, Angel Wings, Angels are Dicks, Bandages, Blood and Injury, Castiel Whump, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel is Not Okay, Comforting Dean Winchester, Comforting Sam Winchester, Cover Art, Crying, Destiel - Freeform, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Naked Castiel, Podfic Welcome, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Sastiel - Freeform, Sleeping Castiel, Team Free Will, Tied-Up Castiel, Touchy-Feely, Unrequited Castiel/Dean Winchester, Unrequited Castiel/Sam Winchester, WinCasWin, Wing petting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-03-25 22:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13844805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Threshie/pseuds/Threshie
Summary: From Heaven to Hell, it's assumed that Castiel is in a relationship with the Winchesters. Everybody knows but Sam and Dean. That doesn't stop the other angels from making an example of Cas for them to find.





	1. Pins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive for months, and I'm still not entirely happy with it, but up it goes. I hope everybody's motivations and the POV shifts make sense. EDIT: I originally plotted more than a one-shot for this story, and since people seem interested in seeing more, I've officially made it into a chapter fic. Comments and kudos still always appreciated!

Cas hasn’t contacted them in days. At first Dean thinks he’s just being flaky about staying in touch. After awhile the phone stops ringing, though, and goes straight to voicemail. That means the battery’s probably dead…and that’s when Sam tracks the location with the GPS.

The angel isn’t even that far away — a few towns over. Or at least his phone is.

Dean speeds the whole way there.

The building is an old warehouse, and the brothers arm themselves, unsure what to expect. Dean gets an awful, ominous feeling when he sees the way the metal door hangs on its hinges.

He signals to Sam that he’s taking point. At his brother’s nod, he slips over to the door silently, pushing it open as softly as he can. The creaking is awful and loud, and echoes inside of the building. Dean doesn’t care anymore, though — there’s fabric on the floor, bits of tan that look too familiar. When he sights a tattered sleeve, it’s like a punch in the gut.

It’s what’s left of Castiel’s coat.

As silent as his brother is, Dean’s aware of him stepping up behind him. He grits his teeth and starts into the building, rounding the corner of a stack of huge crates on wooden pallets. If the next thing he sees is scorched wing marks on the walls, he doesn’t know what he’ll do, but it won’t be anything good.

As it turns out, it’s worse. The rest of Cas’s clothes are scattered on the floor, bits and pieces, some bloodied. Above them, in a horrifying scene straight from the Bible, the angel is hung on the wall like a painting. It’s like an angel crucifixion — Castiel’s big, dark wings extend out to the sides, the silvery points of angel blades poking out from the crest of each one. His hands are bound behind his back, leaving him hanging by the wings, and he’s been stripped naked. Blood from his wings and a mess of sigil-like cuts on his thighs drips down to his feet, then into a large puddle on the floor.

Dean is too shocked and horrified to even react at first. He just stares. Behind him, Sam makes a choked noise as he catches sight of Cas.

“Oh God…”

Cas moves his head the tiniest bit, hearing him, and somehow it’s a thousand times worse seeing him awake and like this. Dean swallows down the sickening clench of his stomach and abandons his weapons, hurrying to the angel’s side.

“Cas! Hey, hey…” He tries not to let his eyes sweep over Castiel’s body, focuses on his face and cups it in his hands. “We’re here, we’re gonna get you down!”

Exhausted blue eyes drag open to meet his, and there’s so much pain there that Dean’s seeing red. He’s got no time for that, though. Cas takes one look at him and starts crying silently, tears streaming down his face. Cas doesn’t cry — Dean has never seen him cry.

Sam hurries over to them and grabs Dean’s shoulder.

“I-I’ll hold him up, you get the knives out,” he says, voice tight. He’s pissed, too. Livid. Who did this? WHY?

Dean nods quickly, and his brother puts his arms around Castiel, lifting him enough to take the weight off of his wings. The change makes Cas choke out a tortured sound, and Sam’s talking to him, trying to reassure him.

“I’ve got you, Cas. Dean’s gonna get you down, okay? It’s okay, just lean on me.”

It’s far from okay, but getting Cas down is the best thing they can do right now. Dean hates the little cries as he yanks each of the knives out of the angel’s wings, and he tries to do it as fast as he can. Each freed wing pulls up close to Cas’s back, smearing blood over Sam’s arms around his waist.

As soon as both wings are free, Sam sinks down to sit on the floor, pulling Cas along with him right onto his lap. He uses both hands to caress the angel’s hair and back. Cas buries his face in Sam’s shoulder, shuddering. Sobbing. He sounds so small and broken.

How long as he like this before they came to find him? Why hadn’t they left sooner? The thought of Cas hanging there thinking they weren’t coming for him is torture.

Biting back tears of his own, Dean kneels behind Cas and uses one of the knives from his wings to free his bound wrists. It’s some kind of Enochian rope with symbols on it, but an angel blade cuts through most things.

Cas immediately moves his hands, and Sam starts to let go of him in case he needs space. Instead, the angel presses up against his chest and holds onto him like he’s a lifeline. The sadness and guilt in Sam’s eyes is clear as he pulls Cas back into his arms, glancing up at his brother.

“We’re here,” he murmurs, running a hand gently over the angel’s dark hair. “Just breathe. Shh…”

* * *

  
Cas leans up against Sam, clings to him, and tries to relax. A breath in. A breath out. The arms around him are strong, safe. Tears choke any words away. His throat feels tight and his face feels hot. Sam’s hand is petting his hair now. Cas can barely hear the things he’s saying over the thumping, panicked tempo of his vessel’s heart.

He’s been here for days. He’d forced himself into a calm mental state — panic would only make him rip up his wings trying to pull free. Seeing Sam and Dean, though, that control fell to pieces. He’s in agony and they’re everything he’s longed for and dreaded, the reason he’s suffering like this. And they don’t know.

“We’ve got you, Cas. I’m here, Dean’s right here,” Sam is saying. His voice is rough with tears, too, but his heart is steady as Cas rests his cheek just over it. The scent of him is comforting. The soft flannel of his shirt is, too, and the warmth of his soul so close by. Heaven no longer feels like home. Sam and Dean feel like home.

He curls down closer against Sam’s chest, hiding his face against the side of his neck, and shudders. Of all the things he’s guilty of, the thing they tortured him for isn’t even true.

“Here we go, Cas…” He must look even worse than he feels, because Dean isn’t even trying the tough guy facade — he’s speaking gently and nicely, too. Cas feels something soft and fabric being slipped around his lower back below his wings. They’re corporeal, and the blanket catches on a feather or two on the way. It would hurt, but Cas is already in such pain that he hardly makes more than a whimper. Still, Sam slips his arms around the blanket too and holds the angel closer, whispering gentle things to him.

“I’m sorry, Cas, I know it hurts… You’re safe now. Shh, you’re safe…”

Again, Castiel tries his best to just relax and breathe. He has been tortured before — if it were only torture he would be able to recover, but the way the other angels, his brothers, had hurt him was more than that. It’s a message — a reminder. Earth is not meant for him. Human things, emotions, love, are not meant for him. Guilt and shame are why he’s paralyzed, the realization that what they punished him for would be true if he knew how to ask for it. If Sam and Dean wanted it.

The lightest touch to one of his wings makes him whimper and press closer to Sam, sobbing.

“D…don’t…”

Sam pets his hair and the back of his neck, big warm hands moving slow and gentle.

“Easy, it’s okay.” That’s Dean’s voice from behind him, to the same side as the wing that was touched. A hand rests on Castiel’s shoulder, tentative. “Your wings are bleeding, I’m just trying to help. Nobody’s gonna hurt you,” he promises.

The last words come out thick. Dean’s upset seeing him like this, the same as Sam. That makes it hurt even more — that they managed to hurt his family by hurting him. He feels sick. They’re trying to help. Maybe if they help, it’ll be some small comfort for them.

He extends the wing nearest to Dean a little, offering it. Moving it at all flexes the part where the blades had pinned him to the wall like a butterfly; he starts shaking after a moment, and Sam goes back to his soothing and petting.

“Relax, Cas. It’s gonna be okay.”

Dean has taken the extended wing, both hands supporting it. The feathers are sensitive, and the terrible wounds near the peak of each wing throb. It’s agony. If Castiel wasn’t tangled in such a mess of guilt and shame and despair at Heaven’s disapproval, he would react more than he’s doing.

Sam holds him while Dean bandages the wounds as gently as he possibly can. When he’s finished with each wing, he carefully folds it against Castiel’s back. Bandaging doesn’t repair the damage, but somehow it does help. It feels like they’re protecting him.

Dean runs his fingers lightly over the uninjured parts of Cas’s wings, just a brush of skin. It feels good — it’s soothing in the same way as Sam’s hands, which are still on his neck and against his back.

“It’s gonna be okay,” Sam repeats, whispering this time. Dean is sitting with them, caressing Castiel’s feathers. They’re taking such care that it just wills more tears to come. All of this suffering is for something that everyone believes but him, but he wants it to be true, so their belief isn’t wrong. He would defy Heaven all over again, risk the anger of the other angels, if it could make them want him. If only they wanted him.

* * *

  
Castiel feels small in his arms. Sam knows he’s not — he’s something so much bigger than them, a celestial creature almost as old as the earth. Right now, though, he just feels light, like a trembling bird with broken wings. Dean’s sitting beside him on the floor, eyes full of anger and pain. His hands on Cas’s wings are the gentlest, though, caressing dark feathers and taking care to avoid the bandaged spots.

It takes awhile, but Cas quiets down. Sam has pulled the blanket up higher on his bare back, and is just holding him. The angel blades and Enochian rope make it clear who did this. It isn’t fair. Cas is the kindest-hearted angel they’ve ever known, but Heaven only sees his mistakes. Mistakes like siding with Sam and Dean.

“Home. Please.” Cas’s voice is ragged from the tears — maybe more, maybe from screaming — and the words come out hoarse and faint. Still, Sam nods quickly, rubbing his back in the middle between his wings.

“Yeah, let’s get you out of here,” Dean agrees, trying to be tough for them. He even forces a smile, although it’s humorless, as he stands up.

Sam stands slowly, helping Castiel to his feet as well. His wings stay tightly folded against his back, bloodied feathers glinting in the light from the door. He leans on Sam, still clinging to his shirt with one hand. Standing makes him wince, and the blood dripping down his legs makes it clear that the cuts aren’t going to heal anytime soon. They must be on Cas, not just his vessel — angel blade cuts.

Sam wonders if Dean realizes the significance of cuts on the thighs. He doubts the Enochian can be read by his brother without the help of a book. Both point to tortures worse than just cuts…things he wouldn’t have expected of angels. Sexual things.

“Easy,” he warns Cas, as they slowly start their way out the door to the waiting car. The Impala is big — Cas’s wings will probably fit if they’re folded just right. Dean hurries ahead of them and gets the back seat ready, laying another blanket in it.

“Cas…” Sam looks down at the angel, who is barely holding it together, leaning on him and trembling. Cas is a soldier — he’s been tortured before, this can’t have just been torture. Sam can’t put him through talking about that right now, though. When Cas looks up at him tearfully, he just wraps both arms around the angel and hugs him again gently. “I-I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

As Dean starts back to them, the angel’s reply is barely audible.

“Me, too,” he whispers.


	2. Bloody

The drive home seems to take three times as long as the drive to the warehouse took. Dean pushes aside the vengeful voice in his head that whispers to go find Castiel’s attackers, and tries to drive slow enough not to jostle the angel in the back seat.

This isn’t just a few physical wounds, this is…so much worse. Dean can’t get the sound of quiet sobbing out of his head — the way Cas clung to Sam like he’d fall apart without arms to hold him together. Cas, one of the strongest people he’s ever known. Cas, who has been tortured before and brushed it off as unimportant.

What did they do to him?

What’s worse than torture?

“We’re almost home, Cas,” Sam says, interrupting Dean’s ever-darkening thoughts. He’s had an arm over the seat to the back the whole time, and Cas is clinging to one of his hands. The bloody blanket and his wounded wings are the only things covering Cas, and he hasn’t said a word since the warehouse. Dean’s mind goes back to the crying, and he has to stop himself from replaying the scene they’d walked in on once again. There was a lot of blood on the floor in that warehouse. Blood and bits of Cas’s clothes.

Sam’s covered in Cas’s blood, too. His arms are smeared with it, his shirt front and the legs of his jeans soaked through from holding Cas on his lap. Dean’s a little bloody, but he’s not sure how Sam can stay this calm when he’s practically painted in it.

He can’t keep his mind from going back to the timeline. While they had breakfast this morning, Cas was hanging on that wall, naked and bleeding. While Dean was safe in bed last night, Cas was cold and alone. While he was joking to Sam that Cas forgot how to use his smartphone, Cas could probably hear it ringing across the room…

Dean goes through the motions of opening the garage door and parking Baby inside like he’s watching somebody else do it. He’s torn between fury and the same deep, self-loathing despair that this could happen to Cas on their watch. How could they let this happen? How could HE let this happen…?

“Here we go. Easy, lean on me...” Sam’s the steady rock through all of this, pulling the back door open and helping Cas climb out of the car. The angel leans heavily against him, legs shaking, barely managing to hold the blanket up around his waist. Dean quickly steps in and holds it up for him, patting his shoulder. 

Cas’s wings must still be corporeal because they’re hurt. Dean has never seen more than their shadows before, and this is the worst possible way to finally get a good look at them. They’re folded tightly against Castiel’s back, the bandages stained, black feathers sticky with drying blood that has run down over most of them. The coppery smell of it makes Dean’s stomach turn in a way blood never has before. 

Because it’s Cas, all of this blood smeared everywhere is part of Cas.

“C’mon, we’ll get cleaned up and then you can lay down,” Sam murmurs, guiding Cas down the hallway. Dean’s glad somebody is being calm and practical, but he feels a stab of further guilt that it isn’t him. Sam has to be messed up by this, too, and taking care of him, that’s Dean’s job. Over the years he’s extended that to taking care of Cas, too, as much as the angel will allow it.

Today he’s failing them both.

He glances sidelong at Cas, his beautiful, wounded friend, and bites his lip. The hurt in those blue eyes is unbearable, so Dean does his best to look ahead.  


* * *

  
Castiel doesn’t look where they’re going — he just follows where Sam leads. He trusts Sam. Dean walks alongside them, brows furrowed low and pain in his eyes. Cas hates to be the cause of it. Sam and Dean might not love him, but they are his friends. They’re hurt to see him so hurt. He wants to show them that he’ll be okay, but he isn’t sure how to even pretend that right now. 

His wings are throbbing, and the cuts on his legs radiate pain. It’s everything he can do not to whimper just from walking. He does insist on walking, though. Sam can’t carry him — his wings would be in the way. Walking shows them that he’s not completely broken, too. He’s not broken. Is he?

That’s a bitterly laughable question. Of course Castiel is broken. His brothers didn’t do it in that warehouse, though. No, he has always been damaged goods — never able to be what Heaven wants, the angel with the proverbial chink in his chassis, as Naomi had put it. He was already broken before this because he won’t murder innocents, because he won’t mindlessly follow orders…

Because he aches for Sam and Dean.

After all of the death he’s caused, he knows he doesn’t deserve love. He understands that he doesn’t deserve Sam and Dean. They probably think he’s happy just to be their friend. They don’t know how much he wishes for them to touch him, to be with him all the time…to love him, too. It’s forbidden, and he’s broken, and he can’t help it. He needs them.

What would they say if they knew?

“We’re here.” Sam’s voice is soft, almost apologetic. Cas only notices the tears when he tries to look up and the hunter’s face is blurry. He blinks them away, sucking in a shuddering breath, and nods. 

They’re in the bunker’s shower room. It’s a group shower, with enough space for his wings to fit easily, and it makes sense. Sam and Dean can’t wash away this much blood without help.

“Cas?” Dean gets his attention, leaning to catch his gaze before he continues to speak. Cas can hardly meet his eyes, but he makes an effort. They shouldn’t have to take care of him, but they’re here doing it anyway — the least he can do is try to cooperate.

Sam’s arm around his waist is probably all that keeps him on his feet, though. He turns to face Dean more and bites back a cry as his legs throb, ducking his head again. Dean’s hands are on his shoulders in an instant. 

“Okay, it’s okay,” he says, and a swell of guilty relief washes over Cas. Dean is comforting, whether he should be or not. He’s keeping his hands on Cas’s shoulders, steadying him. The warmth of Sam’s arm and Dean’s palms is something to focus on besides pain. “We’re gonna get the blood off, Cas,” Dean says gently. “Gonna have to touch your wings to do that. Is that okay?”

Castiel’s throat feels choked. He just wants to curl up against Dean’s chest the way he’d done with Sam before in the warehouse. What good will more tears do, though?

“Yes,” he manages to say, pulling the blanket out of Dean’s grip. They’ve already seen him stripped bare, so he lets the bloodied cloth fall to the floor, stepping shakily away from it and from both of them. 

If they’re shocked, they don’t say so. Sam goes to turn on the shower water, while Dean stays behind and peels the bloodied bandages off of Castiel’s wings as gently as he can. It’s still excruciating, and Cas can hardly breathe without making little pained sounds. The moment the bandages are off, Dean discards them on the floor and rests a steadying hand on his lower back.

“Okay, Cas, just a couple more minutes and then you can lay down.”

The touch is comforting — he doesn’t have to do that. Cas is grateful that he does. The soft _shhh_ of the shower water starts abruptly, then, and he closes his eyes as the heat of it rolls down his back and over the bottoms of his wings. It’s so warm, but he finds himself trembling.

Sam steps back over, offering his arms as the water quickly soaks into his hair and bloody clothes.

“Want to lean on me?” Cas can’t deny that his legs are shaking badly — he needs Sam. He steps forward into his waiting arms and places a hand on his shoulder, leaning against him heavily. Dean’s hands stroke and caress over his wings, gently cleaning the blood off of the feathers. Sam’s soul burns bright and warm against Castiel’s heart. 

This is the most they’ve ever touched him, and he’s grateful, but it hurts. It hurts that it’s not because they love him. What’s left to love, anyway? He’s so broken he’s in pieces. Distantly, he hears Sam talking to him. The hands on his bare back and Dean’s fingers combing through his feathers are a focus once again. 

It’s pointless to cry anymore. He rests his forehead against Sam’s shoulder and just tries to breathe.  


* * *

  
Sam can feel Castiel’s heart racing. The angel is shaking and pressing his face into Sam’s shoulder. His wings seem to hurt him a great deal. Sam wonders if any painkillers they have would do anything about that. Dean is going over each wing with care, using his open palms to handle the feathers gently. As careful as he is, Cas still winces now and then, and Sam reassures him softly. 

It doesn’t take long for the water to stop running red — maybe ten minutes. Dean carefully places each of Cas’s wings folded against his back again and goes to turn off the water. Sam stands there and holds Cas, staring at the curved, feathered shapes. It’s easy to forget that their friend has literal wings. Now that the blood is gone, he can see that the black feathers have an almost iridescent sheen on the surface, like the rainbows on a soap bubble. They’re beautiful, and Sam can’t stand the thought of someone hurting them, or Cas.

“Here we go, Cas.” Dean’s reassuring words draw him back to the present. His brother is wrapping a soft white towel around Cas just like he did with the blanket back in the warehouse. Sam is glad Cas isn’t covered in blood anymore, but he still looks just as hurt and exhausted. The towel around his waist is spotting with fresh blood from the cuts on his legs already, too.

“Let’s get you to your bed,” Sam encourages, leading him slowly out into the hallway again. Cas is wincing softly with each step, but he shakes his head immediately when Sam offers to carry him. There’s a drippy trail of red in the hallway from their march from the garage. Sam steers them around it. The cuts on Cas are starting to bleed down his legs again by the time they reach his room. Sam and Dean are leaving a trail of water, too, from their wet clothing. It doesn’t matter right now.

Dean gets the door for them, and Sam walks Cas over and helps him sit on the bed. It’s not as easy as it seems — his wings are large, and he bumps one of them on the side of the bed, gasping.

Sam takes one of his hands and squeezes it. Cas doesn’t lean on him this time, though he looks like he wants to. He sits on the edge of the bed in just his towel, wings sprawled across the mattress, damp hair falling messy across his forehead, and trembles.

“My clothes…”

Remembering the bloodied shreds on the warehouse floor makes Sam’s stomach turn. Before he can respond, Dean is patting Castiel’s shoulder.

“We’ll loan you some. I’m on it.” Cas doesn’t really look up, but nods. That’s all the confirmation Dean needs — he hurries out the door. Sam squeezes the hand he still holds, Cas unconsciously clinging to him. When he realizes it, the angel reluctantly withdraws his hand.

“Sam, I…”

“It’s okay,” Sam says, before he can apologize again. Cas has nothing to apologize for. He didn’t ask for this, and it’s certainly not his fault. “I need to get the first aid kit,” he explains as he steps away. “I’m gonna be right here, okay?”

Wordlessly, Cas hugs both arms around himself and nods. Sam gets the impression it would have been comforting to hold his hand again. As quickly as he can, he circles around to retrieve the first aid kit from under the foot of the bed. 

“Okay,” he starts, placing it beside the angel and opening the lid, “I don’t know what painkillers to try, but if it might help—”

“No,” Cas interrupts, shaking his head. He shuffles one wing and gives a soft hiss of pain, bowing his head. Sam rests a hand on his shoulder, but there isn’t much else he can do. Either Cas knows the painkillers won’t work, or for some reason he doesn’t want any.

“Okay,” he repeats more gently, “No painkillers. I’ve got to at least bandage you up, though — you’re still bleeding.” 

Cas moves his head, a barely perceivable nod.

“Okay,” he whispers. 

Nodding, too, Sam pulls out gauze, disinfectant, and needles and thread in case the cuts need stitches. They obviously aren’t going to heal up quickly.

Castiel’s wings are bleeding a little again, but nowhere near as badly as his legs. Unlike the wings, they’ve never been bandaged with pressure, and walking here probably didn’t help, either. Sam hovers a hand near the edge of the towel, then stops himself. He looks at Cas guiltily.

“I’ve got to take a look at your legs,” he explains. “Do you want to move the towel, or can I do it?” 

Cas doesn’t move his arms, doesn’t raise his head.

“You can,” he grants Sam permission, voice cracking a little. Sam resists the instinct that says to forget the first aid and just comfort him, and instead reaches for the towel again.

“Okay,” he says gently. He draws the edge of the towel back to reveal Cas’s upper legs. The cuts are less of a bloody mess after the shower water rinsed them — and Sam feels sick when he sees that they curve down to run along the angel’s inner thighs. They must have been carved on while his legs were apart.

Before he can find the words to ask, Cas slides his legs out to the sides, the towel barely covering him anymore. Sam is grateful he doesn’t have to actually make that request. Any good feeling is quickly overpowered by disgust, though. He can see the writing clearly now. The marks are indeed Enochian, and he recognizes them from his books about angels. 

“Cas,” he whispers.

They’re names.


	3. Thank You

Phanuel. Zephon. Jequn. Nakir.

The attackers signed their names. Like Cas was a project they’d done together. Like the torture and stabbing him up to that wall was a work of art. Sam can’t even will himself to be angry — he’s so sick that Cas was put through this that he can hardly look long enough to read the Enochian. 

There are four names, two on each leg. Did they take turns and add their marks like notches on the bedpost? The wing stabs are from putting him on the wall — they had to be last. That leaves the disturbing things…stripped naked, spread legs, restrained…as the method of torture.

By four other angels. Four.

Sam’s remembering the dirty warehouse floor, the bits of torn clothing everywhere. He doesn’t want to think of Cas being forced down to that floor, but it’s hard not to. That many others would have overpowered him easily. Power imbalances, Sam knows well. He shoves the name of the Devil from his mind the second it appears, swallowing hard. This isn’t about him, this is about Castiel.

Cas is keeping his eyes downcast. He knows that they can both read Enochian, and he seems too ashamed to look Sam in the eye. Blue-white light shines through the deepest bits of the wounds, a glimpse of his grace. It only shows how deeply the names are carved, though. They’re not just on Cas’s vessel, they are on him. Sam wonders if celestial beings can have scars. Are their names on him forever?

“Cas,” he manages thickly, “These are angel names.”

“Yes.” Castiel confirms it without looking at him. 

“A-are they who—” 

“Yes.”

Sam stares at him, the ache in his chest growing, and he feels sick all over again. How could anybody look at Cas and do this to him? He’s one of the most genuinely good people Sam has ever met. He’s not perfect, he’s made mistakes, but he tries so hard to do the right thing. He doesn’t deserve this. How can they think he deserves this?

And the names — are these angels Cas knows? God, are they angels he used to fight alongside, used to call his friends…?

Castiel offers no more explanation. His blue eyes are fixed on the spots of blood on the edge of the towel, and Sam can see how exhausted he is. The defeated, trembling slope of his shoulders stands out starkly against the dark wounded wings glistening with their subtle colors on the bed. 

He’s beautiful. He looks out of place in the plain, dull light of the bunker. The blood and tears are intruders, too, pulling a celestial creature down among Earth’s gritty imperfections. For something so ancient and powerful and stunning, Cas also seems remarkably small and fragile. 

It’s not fair to make him talk about any of this, and it’s not important to ask why. No reason would be a justified one, anyway. Right now Sam just wants to help him feel safe. 

“I’m going to bandage them up,” he tells Cas gently, reaching for the first aid supplies he just laid out on the bed.  


* * *

  
Sam is upset, and Castiel feels responsible. He was calm and steady until he saw the names the other angels had cut into Cas’s skin. After that, Sam looks at him differently. Is it pity? He doesn’t want to be pitied.

“Are you sure you don’t want something for pain? Morphine might work,” Sam offers. Cas quickly shakes his head. He doesn’t want that. He’s been in pain for days already, what’s a little more? Maybe he deserves it. 

He was also managing to stay calm for the most part until Sam read the names. Now he feels like he might burst after seeing them. He knows this is to help him, not to hurt him further, but Sam’s soft touches against his thigh are making him remember the last time someone touched there. 

Their hands had bruised him. If not for his grace healing superficial wounds in the days after, Sam and Dean could have seen exactly where hands had gripped him. Even the sharpness of the needle Sam is using to make quick stitches doesn’t fully pull him back to the present. He’s in so much other pain. A needle is nothing.

In a way, everything that happened is Castiel’s own fault. He’d been foolish to place himself in such a situation. Phanuel had said he wanted to talk about Heaven and redemption — a way to prove to them that he could be an ally again. When Castiel arrived there were three other angels there as well, and they had shown no remorse. 

They had been proud of themselves.

Sam’s palm runs over the inside of Castiel’s thigh, smoothing a bandage into place over the stitches, and suddenly he can’t breathe. The jeering, hateful voices are playing out in his head, the words that were said during their “correction” of his failings. 

_“You should thank us.”_

Suddenly he’s no longer safe in the bunker with Sam. He is back in the warehouse, naked on the floor, his wrists bound tightly and hands all over him. Jequn and Zephon are at his sides, forcing his legs wide, and Nakir…is in front of him. In front of him and on top of him and inside of him. Phanuel, the ringleader, is yanking his head back by a handful of his hair and getting right in his face, delighting at Castiel’s cries and gasps.

_“You do enjoy doing this, don’t you? Using a vessel this way.” He’s somehow both incredulous and smug._

_Cas bites back a whimper as Nakir slams into him again._

_“I-I don’t do this—I don’t—” It’s true. He has never._

_“Don’t try to deny it — everyone knows just how far you’ve gone for the Winchesters,” Phanuel sneers, practically spitting their names. His vessel is a tall blond man with a thin face, but the way his lip curls is definitely just Phanuel. “Angels, demons, everyone,” he continues over the tiny cries Castiel can’t help making, voice dripping with disdain. “It’s disgusting, Castiel. YOU’RE disgusting. I’m sure your Winchesters will agree after this.”_

_Cas can hardly breathe. Pain, he could handle, but this is different. They mean to ruin him. Whatever tiny secret hope he’s held that Sam and Dean might someday want him back is crumbling to pieces, and he can’t keep the panic off of his face._

_“No,” he chokes, trying to shake his head, trying to struggle. “You don’t—” Phanuel gives his hair a hard yank, clicking his tongue in disapproval._

_“Whatever you were going to say, don’t bother. The only thing I want to hear from you is ‘thank you’. We’re lowering ourselves almost to your level to teach you how it’s done, Castiel. You want to behave like an animal, you’d better find another perverted angel to do it with — humanity is forbidden by God!”_

_“I’ve never…” Cas tries again, tears streaming down his face at last. “S-Sam and Dean…they don’t want me…”_

_“More lies,” Phanuel whispers to him, patting his cheek. “But that’s okay, we’ll make that one true.”_  


* * *

  
“They don’t want me…” Dean gets back to the room just in time to hear Castiel choke the words out. Sam is on the floor, starting to sit up on his hands. There’s bits and pieces of the first aid kit scattered all around him, and Cas is huddled in the center of the bed, fresh bandages on one thigh and the other bleeding onto the duvet. His wings are swooped up and around himself protectively, but the injuries are making them shake.

“Cas!” Sam gets back to his feet, holding out his palms to the angel. “Cas, can you hear me? You’re okay, you’re safe at home!”

Dropping the clothes he’s carrying, Dean hurries to his brother’s side.

“You okay, Sam?”

Sammy looks like he might cry. He won’t take his eyes off of Castiel.

“His wing just knocked me over,” he replies tightly. “I-I don’t think he can hear me.” 

“Phanuel, please…” Dean feels his heart squeeze at the sobbed words. That’s an angel’s name, and Cas sounds so much worse than he did in the warehouse. 

Whoever the hell Phanuel is, Dean has plans for him later. 

Right now, though, he approaches Cas slowly, hating everything about the picture that’s forming of the attack. Hasn’t Cas been punished enough? Haven’t they given up yet on trying to make him be a good obedient angel and go back to work for Heaven?

“Cas,” Dean says softly, stepping up close to the side of the bed. He gets no response; Castiel is half sobbing, half choking like he can’t breathe. Whatever he’s seeing, he has given up trying to talk his way out of it anymore. 

Dean reaches out and places a hand slowly on the angel’s bare shoulder. Cas flinches at the soft touch, bowing his head and curling up a little more on the bed. His wings shake harder. 

“Shh, shh,” Dean soothes, touching his hair instead. At first there’s no response, and then a little shiver runs all the way through Cas, even his feathers ruffling with the force of it. He lets his wings hang down beside him.

“Th…thank you,” he mumbles, still brokenly. “Thank you.”

Dean has no idea what he’s talking about, but it’s disturbing to try to imagine anything that fits. This whole thing is disturbing — Cas is like a wounded animal. He was talking when Dean left the room. What set this off? 

Dean sits slowly on the bed beside the angel, keeping a reassuring hand on his hair.

“Can you hear us, Cas? It’s me and Sam.”

Sam follows his example, carefully seating himself on Castiel’s other side. He tries stroking the wing nearest him with the back of his hand. Cas responds to that with a tiny whimper, then suddenly lifts his head. 

“…Sam?”

“Yeah, Cas. I’m right here,” Sam replies, studying the angel’s face. Dean can see the fears and questions in his brother’s hazel eyes, and he wonders what Cas might have said before he got back to the room.

“We’re both here.” Dean ducks under the wing near him, turning Cas’s face to get him to look at him. “Hey, it’s okay now. You’re safe at home, Cas.”

He stares at Cas, and Cas stares at him. His friend’s eyes are red from crying. The blueness of them stands out so brightly that it would be beautiful if it wasn’t so damned unfair. The gaze seems to ground him, though, and he goes completely quiet.

After what feels like a long time, he swallows hard and turns his head, pulling his face away from Dean’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” he says thickly, looking down at his shaking hands on his lap. The towel is around his waist still, bloodied from his unbandaged thigh. “Sorry, Sam.”

“It’s okay.” Sam moves the wing he’s been petting, ducking under it like Dean just did with the other, and watches the angel’s expression. Cas peers up at him from under furrowed brows, a few fresh tears spilling down his cheeks.

“It isn’t,” he whispers.

“You’re right, it’s not,” Dean agrees, resting his hand at the back of Cas’s neck. Cas shivers a bit more, but leans into his touch. Trying to be comforting, Dean scoots closer to his side and pats his shoulder, too. What else can he say? Nothing seems like enough.

“How can we help, Cas?” Sam asks. Cas doesn’t really look at him, but his brows furrow slightly in response.

“Just…f-finish what you were doing. I’m sorry,” he sniffles, looking down at the bandages on his thigh. Sam nods and moves to gather the first aid supplies from the floor. While he does that, Dean turns and slips his arms around the angel’s waist. 

It takes a moment for Cas to hug back. Once he does, though, he practically collapses against Dean’s side, burying his face in the shoulder of the hunter’s flannel shirt.

“This isn’t your fault,” Dean whispers, looking at the slowly shifting colors of the angel’s wings. 

“Dean…” Cas sounds like he wants to argue, but has no words left.

“I mean it, Cas. And it’s not okay now, but it’s gonna be. It’ll be okay.” 

He’s not sure he believes it, but he needs Cas to.


	4. Names

Dean keeps his arms around Cas. His soul is soothing, fending off any more vivid memories while Sam disinfects and stitches and bandages.

He’s not sure how much he said aloud before, but it was clearly enough to disturb the brothers. Dean’s hold feels protective. He and Sam keep exchanging glances, confirming that Cas is still okay while Sam is behind him to patch up his wings. 

Touching his wings actually helps to ground Cas. Sam is caressing feathers, sliding his hands over the edges — trying to be comforting, and it’s working. It’s working so well that Cas’s back is tingling a little.

They’re being so kind, and Castiel aches, aches for them. He loves them.

“Okay, Cas.” Sam’s voice is quiet, but it still shatters the silence in the room. “You’re all patched up now,” he tells Cas, giving the wing he’d been bandaging one last caress with his palm. Castiel pulls away from Dean at last, turning to meet Sam’s eyes and nod at him.

He hasn’t said a word since Dean hugged him. His throat feels choked still, and really, what is there to say? They’ve seen how many pieces he’s broken into already.

“I’ll grab your clothes,” Dean says, patting his shoulder and slipping off the edge of the bed to go get them. Sam lingers by Castiel’s side, the first aid kit in one hand and the other hovering near the angel’s shoulder. He doesn’t touch, though, just stays close. Cas wishes that he would touch, but he doesn’t ask, either.

Dean returns from the hallway with the clothes he was carrying earlier. It’s a set of Sam’s pajamas. Dean must have chosen them because they’re baggy enough to leave space for bandaged legs without pressing. He hands Cas the pants, and Cas lets Sam help him pull them on, discarding the towel finally. They’re too long; the legs crinkle at the bottom, resting on the tops of his bare feet.

“This wasn’t exactly designed for wings, so I improvised,” Dean says, showing him the oversized pajama shirt next. The collar is missing, and it dips down into a somewhat ragged shape that will leave the top half of the wearer’s back exposed. It looks like Dean did it with a knife, and probably in a hurry, but it’s a thoughtful gesture. 

The high-pitched pop of shredding fabric flashes through Castiel’s mind, and he does his best not to think about his coat and other clothes. The last time he saw frayed cloth, it was bits of his bloodstained dress shirt on the warehouse floor.

“I better help you put it on,” Dean offers, his voice gently drawing Cas back to the present. The angel blinks, realizing Dean is waiting for his permission. First Sam with the towel, and then Dean with the shirt. Cas wishes he could explain why they’re the two people he will always trust to touch him. 

He nods to Dean, holding out one arm. Beside him, Sam moves to put away the first aid kit.

Carefully, Dean pulls the first sleeve of the shirt onto Castiel’s arm. He steps up close, chest to chest, and puts both arms around Cas to pass the other side of the shirt beneath his wings. Cas moves his other arm back, resting his cheek on Dean’s shoulder and focusing on the soul beneath the surface. It’s warm like the sun, bright yet muted, rough-edged yet tender. It’s undeniably DEAN. 

The hand on his wrist is gentle and careful, guiding his arm into the sleeve and pulling it up. Cas wants to hug him again, and to be held. Instead they both sit back at the same time. Dean doesn’t meet his gaze, focusing on the front of the shirt as he buttons it. The cut-out back feels a bit odd, but his wings are perfectly free to move.

“Ready to lay down?” Sam steps up beside them again, hazel eyes flicking from Castiel’s face to Dean’s and back. Cas is so tired. He nods, turning to look at the pillows and blankets. His wings have scattered a few dark feathers across them. Sam pulls back the blankets for him, the dark bits of himself enfolded in the cloth.

“Easy does it… There you go.” Dean’s voice and hands are both gentle as he helps Castiel lower himself onto his side on the bed. Sam supports him with a big hand under his shoulders as well, placing his wings down with the other. Cas lets himself be moved, sinking his cheek into the pillow and looking down at it. His wings feel fragile laid out behind him on the soft sheets, like something could easily crush them. He folds them up as best he can, wincing.

Sam pulls the blankets across him, mindful of bending feathers or brushing bandaged wounds. Dean pulls the fluffy comforter up to Cas’s chest and pats it lightly.

“Thank you,” Cas whispers to them, the first thing he’s said in a long while. His voice is tattered from the tears. 

He instantly regrets the words. It’s still fresh in his mind — Phanuel, dragging him around by the hair. Phanuel, tearing through his clothes like they’re nothing. 

_Phanuel’s whispering sweetly into his ear while the others hold his legs open, and he’s screaming. The tip of the blade is sinking into his thigh again, and again, and again._

_“Say it, Castiel. Show us how grateful you are.”_

_He’s not. He didn’t want this, doesn’t want any more of this. Phanuel hasn’t taken a turn yet, though, and the longer he doesn’t say it, the longer they’re going to take signing Zephon’s name._

Reality snaps back into focus. Dean has just sat on the edge of the bed, moving it. The mattress shifts again slightly as Sam sits on the other side. The weight of it reminds Castiel what’s real. So does Dean’s hand lingering on his chest, holding the soft comforter against the buttons of Sam’s pajama shirt. His heart is stuttering against the bottoms of those buttons.

“Hey…still with us, Cas?” Dean’s voice is low and soothing.

“Yes,” Cas answers immediately, swallowing. He can’t keep the tremble out of his voice, and he’s a little afraid to sleep now. What if he dreams about Phanuel?

“Okay, well we’re gonna stay right here,” Dean promises, patting his chest again. Castiel looks down at his hand, mentally tracing over the lines of the fingers, and he’s relieved that they aren’t going to leave him alone. 

“Okay,” he replies softly, taking a deep breath. It was just a flicker of a memory — he’s calming himself down much better than last time. Sam is petting his wings again, and it’s a welcome distraction. 

“Anything you need, just tell us, okay?” Dean is leaning over him, brows knitted in concern still.

“Okay,” Cas says again. 

“Is there anything else we can do, Cas?” Sam asks from across the bed.

It would be so easy for them to move a little closer, and lay down, and hold him. He could ask for that. He could tell them that having their souls close to him is more of a comfort than anything else, that he desperately wants to feel their skin on his and to feel safe that way.

He could be selfish.

“No,” he whispers, the guilt curling in his chest at even thinking of it. “I just need to lay here for awhile.” They don’t want him. He doesn’t even deserve all that they’ve done already — what right does he have to ask for more?

_“Don’t be ungrateful, Castiel. Thank him.”_

He forces Phanuel’s voice out of his mind, focusing on Dean in front of him instead. The hunter is still frowning, but reluctantly accepts his answer, sitting back on the edge of the bed. 

“Just try and rest,” he sighs. “You’re safe here, Cas. We won’t let anybody hurt you.” 

Castiel shivers. If Sam and Dean were faced with Phanuel and the others, as brave and tough as the hunters are, they’re only human. The angels would kill them. If only to take them away from Cas, they would kill them.

“I know,” he whispers, and closes his eyes.  


* * *

  
They sit there for a long time. Cas starts to breathe slow and steady after awhile. His grace is weakened enough that he’s probably actually asleep.

Sam has been replaying Castiel’s panic attack in his head over and over. He wants to stop, but he can’t. It’s making him think of the Cage, of Lucifer. Of feeling helpless. He regrets reminding Cas of that. It was obviously triggered by something that he did, probably touching the carved-in angel names.

The names…

“Sam.” The whisper draws his attention. Dean’s shooting him a look that says they have to talk. Sam glances down at Castiel, wrapped in white bandages and his borrowed pajamas. He doesn’t want to leave the angel’s side right now, but they really do need to talk. Dean doesn’t understand the whole situation yet.

He gives his brother a small nod, slowly standing up from his side of the bed. Dean does the same, watching Cas to be sure the angel stays asleep. Cas doesn’t even stir. Of course he doesn’t — he’s exhausted. Thinking of what he’s been through makes Sam’s heart hurt.

He and Dean step around the bed and just out the door into the hallway. Sam’s trying to stay calm about what he’s about to discuss. The panic attack is replaying yet again, and as awful as the crying is, the little whispered ‘thank you’ is worse. The brokenness in Cas’s voice…it’s horrific and unfair.

And then he’s saying the names again.

The click of the door closing snaps Sam back to the present. They’re standing in the hallway. Dean’s staring at him, and there’s fury snapping in his eyes.

“What the hell happened in there?” He’s not angry at Sam, at least Sam doesn’t think so, but his shoulders are hunched and his hands are clenched into fists. He’s surprisingly calm, considering the situation.

“When I started to patch up his legs, he just…lost it,” Sam explains, his voice shaking a little. He looks down at the floor, willing away the latest replay of Cas bleeding, crying… “H-he started crying and talking to somebody who wasn’t there.”

“Yeah, Phanuel,” Dean says darkly. “Whoever the hell that is.”

Sam’s stomach clenches at the memory of Cas sobbing that name.

“It’s an angel,” he replies quietly. “The, uh, the cuts on his legs, they’re angel names. He said they’re the ones who…did this to him.” Cas hadn’t even been able to look at him. They made him THANK them…

Dean’s gritting his teeth like he wants to swear and nothing is adequate. Sam can relate.

“Cuts on the thighs like that,” he continues, swallowing the lump in his throat. “I-it’s really old symbolism marking somebody ‘unclean’ from…from rape.” Even knowing what it is, it’s hard to force the word out. Cas has never had sex, and this, THIS is the first time someone… He can’t even finish the thought. It makes him want to throw up.

“I know,” Dean says thickly. “I mean, I didn’t know the lore, but I…I know.”

Sam meets his eyes, and there’s sad sympathy there. Dean gets it. Sam has never spoken much about what Lucifer did to him in the Cage, but Dean knows enough. He can see that Sam knows all too well what Cas is going through right now.

Sam’s vision is blurring with tears again, and he focuses on the floor. It won’t stop playing, the sound of Cas crying and saying the names.

“What are we gonna do, Dean?”  


* * *

  
Dean doesn’t hesitate. 

“We find the sons of bitches and end them.”

Sam keeps his eyes downcast as he nods, his face a grim, slightly pale mask. This isn’t about Lucifer, but it still sort of is. Dean knows better than to think he can help. It’s the same reason they can only do so much for Cas — there are some kinds of hurt that even time can’t mend. What they CAN do, and what he intends to do, is to find out why the other angels did this. 

He’ll learn why, and then he’ll show them why it was the worst mistake they’ll ever make.

“I’ve got their names.” Sam’s voice interrupts his violent thoughts. “And we know they were at the warehouse. I-I’ll read about them, maybe it’ll bring up a way to find them.”

“Good.” Dean jerks a thumb back at the bedroom door. “I’ll stay with Cas ‘til you find something.” He promised he would, and leaving Cas alone right now isn’t a good idea. Sam’s looking so shaken right now that Dean’s not sure leaving him alone is that smart, either. It’ll probably help to be doing something for Cas, though.

When Sam takes a step away from the door, Dean grabs his arm. 

“Hey. What’re the names?”

Sam’s brows pinch further. He looks a little sick.

“Phanuel, Zephon, Jequn and Nakir,” he recites, wrapping his arms around himself.

“Four of them,” Dean says in disbelief, fury boiling up in his chest all over again. “FOUR?”

“Yeah,” Sam whispers, ducking his head. He’s blinking back tears, and Dean reminds himself that Sam got to see more of Cas’s panic attack than him. Sam, who can relate too much. He places a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“Hey.” When Sam looks at him, Dean locks eyes with him. “We’ll find them, Sammy,” he promises. Sam’s mouth twitches, trying for a smile and ending up just trembling.

“H-he said our names too, Dean.”

“What?” Dean freezes, staring at him. Cas mentioned them? The angels mentioned them? “What did he say about us?”

“That we don’t want him. Like he was telling them.” Sam turns his face away, a few tears spilling down his cheeks. Dean can’t describe the look in his eyes. Angry. Guilty. Haunted, like he can see something in the cold hallway that Dean can’t. “Dean, I-I think they did this because of us.”


	5. Faults

_“They don’t want me…”_

Now that Dean knows who Cas was talking about, those words stab him with guilt. He’s sitting on the side of the angel’s bed, holding one of his hands and watching him sleep. Sam is off in the library digging up whatever dirt he can find on the twisted angels who did this to their friend, and Dean can’t get his brother’s words out of his head, either.

That the angels did this to Cas because of them. That this is, indirectly, their fault. 

He looks down at Castiel’s sleeping face, dark brows furrowed low over his forehead like he might be having a bad dream. Dean runs his thumb gently over the back of the hand he’s holding, hoping it gets through to any nightmares that he’s here standing guard. It’s too little too late — he should’ve been there to prevent this in the first place. He isn’t sure how, but there must have been SOMETHING he could have done to protect Cas.

Maybe if he’d paid better attention to the radio silence. It took days to find Cas and get him out of the place where they had… 

Dean forces himself not to finish that sentence. Not to think of Cas in that big warehouse, naked and bleeding, with nothing to replay in his head but all of the horrible things that had just been done to him.

Was it revenge? Most of Heaven is pissed Cas is a rebel and sided with humans instead of the big cosmic machine up there, but angels don’t torture like this. They’re old-school, they usually cut each other up with their angel blades and call it a day.

These four signed their names. It’s personal.

Castiel shifts in his sleep, making a soft sound of discomfort. Scooting closer, Dean squeezes his hand and talks softly to him.

“Cas…hey, it’s okay.” The words stick in his throat, though. He’s still just starting to grasp how NOT okay everything is. If the angels think Sam and Dean want Cas…does it go the other way, too? Does Cas want them? Want HIM?

Did they do this because of…

Is it Dean’s fault?

The hand in his jerks away, and Cas gasps, struggling out of the blankets. It jostles his wings, and he chokes at that, but stumbles off of the bed and toward the door anyway.

Dean hurries after him, arms out but not wanting to just grab and startle him.

“Cas!” He steps quickly after the angel, wincing when Cas batters his wings on the doorframe and flees anyway. Dean chases him out into the hallway, calling, “Stop, Cas!”

If Cas is startled, he could toss Dean down the hallway, but Dean doesn’t care. He catches his friend by the arm and pulls him to a stop, hugging both arms around him. Cas’s wings are half-flapping against his arms, one smacking painfully against the wall. Dean knows better than to try to hug them against him.

“Shhh, shh, you’re okay,” he hums to Cas, rocking him. “I’ve got you, Cas. Shhh, got you…” The angel makes a little choked sound and slumps against his chest, shuddering. Mercifully, he lets his wings hang behind him, no more thrashing or hitting them on things. Dean’s heart aches. He’s supposed to keep Cas from getting hurt any more. 

Trying to swallow the lump in his throat, he stands there and sways back and forth, the angel resting against him. There has to be something more he can do to help.

Cas is trying to pull away suddenly, making little sounds of distress. Dean lets go enough for him to be able to see his face. Blue eyes reddened from tears squint up at him, confusion written on Castiel’s face.

“D…Dean?” He rasps, clutching at the hunter’s shirt to keep his balance. 

“It’s me,” Dean assures him, patting his back. “You’re safe, okay? Safe at home.” He stops short, seeing how pale Cas is, even his lips. The angel studies his face, dazed and exhausted. Keeping an arm around his waist, Dean gently turns him to walk toward the bedroom. “C’mon, let’s get you back into bed.”  


* * *

  
The silence in the library is stifling. Sam ruffles through the pages of the books and sits them on the table with a loud smack, just to break up that stillness. He’s doing his best to focus on researching the angels, but it’s hard when he can’t stop thinking about Cas. Cas and what he said about them.

There’s no mistaking what “Sam and Dean don’t want me” means, not when the attackers chose to…to hurt Cas the way they did. They think Sam, Dean, or both of them DO want Cas. Probably, they think Cas wants them back.

There have been plenty of remarks from enemies meant to demean Cas by saying he’s “theirs”, that he’s in love with one or both of them. Cas himself has never seemed anything but uncomfortable or indifferent to those comments. Sam has a horrible, gnawing feeling that it’s something they’re doing, something HE’S doing, that’s giving others this impression about Castiel.

He wonders if it’s his fault. 

The attack itself isn’t, of course. Sam knows better than to blame himself for what some twisted angels chose to do. The way they did it, though…that’s on him, he’s almost certain of it. If Cas didn’t live with them, do everything he could to help them, maybe the other angels wouldn’t assume they were an item. If they didn’t think that, Sam is sure they never would have turned sex into a weapon. They did it this way because this was the way that would ruin what they thought Cas had. 

What they thought made him happy.

Sam sits heavily back into his chair, looking down at the books on the table and struggling not to let tears blur the titles any further. Crying won’t help Cas. Being sick won’t help Cas.

It’s the small hours of the morning, and he can feel the weight of exhaustion and all of the emotion in the past day pressing on him. When Sam thinks of Castiel laying in the bed, though, wrapped in his too-big pajamas and white bandages, he can’t even consider going to sleep. He needs to help — he needs to show Cas there’s some hope.

There are references to all of these angels in the lore. In the Men of Letters’ books, and in Genesis. In the Book of Enoch. He’s been taking note of anything important on the notepad on the table, and there’s a neat list so far:

_Nakir — ‘The Denier’, punishes unfaithful souls_

_Zephon — Genesis 36:11, ‘Guardian of Paradise’_

_Jequn (Yeqon?) — ‘He shall rise’, temptation, sex_

_Phanuel — ‘Face of God’, repentance, judgment_

It was hard to write Phanuel’s name. Cas crying that name is not something Sam will soon forget. 

All-in-all, the angels seem to be ones associated with following rules of Heaven, and with punishing others who don’t. This seems too personal to be about just doing as they’re told. Unless they’re angry that Castiel deviated from what they consider normal for an angel, Sam doesn’t have much more specific information about why they attacked him. 

Except that it’s probably Sam’s fault.

It’s taken him a long time to admit to himself that he has an almost childish admiration for Castiel. The angel has an endearing innocence and curiosity to him. Even after seeing Cas make some huge mistakes, Sam’s pretty sure he’s fallen in love at least a little. Maybe as a friend, maybe as more. 

Does it matter? Especially after this, the last thing Cas probably wants is to have Sam or anybody he trusts trying to put the moves on him. Sam’s never really thought of him like that, hasn’t let himself dwell on it that much. He can’t deny that there’s a warmth that comes with even thinking Cas’s name, though. Life is just better with Castiel in it. 

Life for Cas, though…if he’s been put through all of this torture because of Sam’s stupid, awe-struck little crush, Sam will never forgive himself.

The list is starting to blur again. Sam sits back and scrubs at his eyes, clearing his throat and trying to breathe steady until the tears retreat again. 

He’s not getting any more useful work done for now, not at this rate. Going to bed is going to have to happen sooner or later, but he remembers Dean promising that both of them would be there with Cas while he slept. Sam wonders if Cas is still asleep. What if he wakes up and Sam isn’t there? What if he thinks Sam doesn’t care enough to be there?

Leaving his research laid out on the table, the hunter gets to his feet and steps quickly down the hallway. He’s got to at least check on Cas before crashing.  


* * *

  
“Easy, okay, okay…” Dean’s hands are strong and gentle on Castiel’s shoulders, holding him steady. He’s hunched over what he vaguely recognizes as one of the bunker bathrooms’ ceramic toilets, and even though he doesn’t eat, he’s pretty sure his vessel’s stomach didn’t get the memo.

How he got here is a blur. He remembers struggling out of the blankets and stumbling down the hallway, wings half flapping and hitting into the door frame on the way through. It hurt enough to cry out, but he fled anyway, his body feeling like it was crumpling in on itself stomach-first.

Dean must have seen that he was going to be sick and guided him here. He’s rubbing Cas’s back gently now, the bare part between his wings. Cas is gripping the edge of the toilet like it’s possible to fall in, shaking badly. Suddenly the blurred world sharpens into this painful, pitiful picture of himself hunched and sitting on the floor, and he wishes Dean wasn’t here to see.

“D…Dean,” he gasps, shuddering and dragging his wings closer to his back. If he folds them, the wounded peaks will brush against Dean’s hand, so he doesn’t.

“Got you, Cas,” Dean responds, and he’s doing a good job not sounding disgusted or annoyed. This can hardly look attractive. “I’m right here.” 

Castiel’s stomach twists, threatening to make him retch again, but it doesn’t. He manages a miserable look up at Dean, only to find the hunter offering him a little cup of water. 

“Here, you probably wanna rinse your mouth out.” 

Cas is thinking about many things, but that isn’t one of them. Still, he reaches for the cup. He misses, hands shaking so much that he nearly knocks it out of Dean’s hand in the process. Brows pinching in worry, Dean forces a smile to reassure him. 

“Let me, okay?” He holds the cup up to Castiel’s lips. Caught somewhere between shame and frustration, Cas takes a sip of the water. Dean takes a sip, too, and demonstrates how to swish it around in his mouth and spit it in the toilet. As silly as it seems, Cas never did master how to brush his teeth, and it’s helpful to see it demonstrated. He follows suit, then sits there silently, realizing that he actually feels cold sitting on the floor. His grace must still be weak.

Dean sits beside him, leaning back against the counter, and watches him with troubled eyes.

“We know what they did,” he says finally, softly. Cas can’t look at him. He folds his wings on his back and leans an arm on the edge of the toilet. “I know you probably can’t talk about this yet,” Dean continues, voice breaking a little. “I’m just…I’m sorry, Cas. I’m so sorry.”

Castiel bites his lip. Why should Dean apologize for any of this? It’s not his fault that angels believe he might be capable of loving Cas. It’s not Sam’s fault, either. If anyone here is to blame, it’s Castiel.

He can remember now why he fled the room. It’s rare for him to sleep, and even rarer to dream…and right now there are only nightmares to play out.

“You didn’t do this,” he whispers to Dean, chancing a look at him finally. Dean watches him sadly still, holding out an arm. Offering. Cas would not have asked, but since Dean is offering, he scoots up against the hunter’s side and leans against him, still shivering. “…Sam didn’t…do this.”

Dean turns to face him a little more, wrapping his arm around Castiel’s waist. He rests the other hand so gently against his wings, stroking the feathers with his thumb. For all of his kind actions, his soul is burning furiously beneath the surface. Cas presses closer to it, the cold from the tile floor slowly bleeding away.

“But we didn’t stop it,” Dean breathes. “I-I should’ve been there, Cas.” Just the thought of that makes Castiel’s stomach twist again, and he shivers.

“No…”

“If you need to talk, I’ll listen.” Dean tilts his head, trying to catch Cas’s line of sight. The angel looks up at him, wondering what to say. Would talking help? If Dean hears what happened…what he did…he probably won’t be so sympathetic anymore. He might realize it’s Castiel’s fault, too.

Cas is disgusted with himself, that that makes him want to hide. Being quiet won’t change what really happened, and Sam and Dean have a right to know. Here Dean is blaming himself, and he has no idea what happened. He says he does, but he doesn’t.

“I’ll tell you,” Cas whispers.


	6. Filthy

“Phanuel said I might still reconcile with Heaven. That he could help me.”

Dean doesn’t really want to hear the details. He’s dreading this conversation, especially how it’ll affect Cas. The angel had never shed a tear in front of them until they found him in that warehouse. Seeing him so broken down and helpless isn’t just upsetting, it’s disturbing — of all the people for Dean to fail to save, why did it have to be Cas? Why like this?

He doesn’t want to hear the details, but if Cas needs to talk, Dean’s going to listen.

“So you went to meet him,” he says, looking at the floor.

“Yes.” 

Dean waits for Cas to continue, but he’s silent after that, blue eyes fixed distantly on the floor, too. The bathroom tiles aren’t very shiny, but the slow shifting colors on the surface of Castiel’s wings drift across them anyway. It’s a tiny, subtle movement, a good thing to focus on. Something not horrible, at least. Even the feathers scattered near the doorway shimmer softly.

Cas himself still looks pale. Dean can feel him shivering against his side. He wishes they could have this talk somewhere else, somewhere Cas will be more comfortable, but the angel will probably clam up by the time they walk back to the bedroom.

He’s been silent for several minutes now.

“It’s okay if you can’t do this yet, Cas,” Dean assures him.

Cas quickly clears his throat and sits up straighter at that, taking a deep breath.

“No, I-I’ll tell you.”

Dean hates this. It’s too soon. It’s going to hurt Cas all over again, but he seems determined to do it.

“I went to meet him,” Cas starts over, his voice rough-edged. “And the others were there. And they attacked me.”

Dean nods. 

“Sam says there were four of them.”

“Yes. I was overpowered. They disarmed me, hit me, they—” Cas falters, glancing quickly up at Dean and then back to the floor. “They bound my arms and…undressed me.”

‘Undressed’ is the wrong word, but maybe he doesn’t want to say the right one. Right now Dean’s remembering the shreds of clothes and splatters of blood on that warehouse floor. 

With faint horror, he realizes he never saw where Cas’s tie ended up. His mind is filling in the violent blanks. Maybe they choked him with it. Maybe while ripping his shirt off. Whatever they did to reduce every piece of clothing to tatters, it couldn’t have left Cas without a mark on him…

Seeing the questions in his eyes, the angel nods. 

“By the time you and Sam arrived, all wounds except the ones to my grace had healed,” he explains. It’s too easy to imagine his face bloodied and battered, and Dean looks away to the doorway. 

They didn’t save him. They didn’t even come close.

“I wish you told us where you were going, Cas.” He grits his teeth. No, that sounds like he’s blaming Cas. No part of this is his fault — it’s Dean’s for not checking on him after days of silence. If he’d realized fast enough, maybe they could have at least confronted Cas’s attackers. Even noticing he was missing sooner, getting him down from that wall sooner, something…

“I didn’t see the need. I knew them, Dean.” Cas sighs slowly, turning his gaze back to the floor. “They were my friends.”  


* * *

  
It’s been over a century, but Castiel remembers how they used to regard him — as a role model, as a hero. They were, all of them, enforcing the laws of Heaven together. Back then none of them had thought sex was something an angel should partake in. They'd believed that laying with a human was rightly punishable by death. He’d taught Phanuel that himself.

That was before Castiel rebelled. Before Phanuel and the others did the things they’ve done.

Who has fallen farther?

Thinking about it makes Cas’s stomach twist in knots again, but he has to go a step further, put it into words. He doesn’t deserve all of this sympathy.

“They took turns,” he says, before Dean can reply to the other comment. “One at a time.” He can feel the hunter’s gaze on him, but keeps his own eyes fixed on the floor. He has to get the words out without thinking about what they mean. 

That’s the only way this is going to work — detachment. 

“The others, they held me down. And Ph…” The name chokes him, and he has to swallow before forcing it out. “Phanuel talked to me.”

Dean says nothing, but the arm around Castiel’s waist holds him tighter, protective.

“They hurt me, and Phanuel made me thank them for it.” The tiles are blurry; Cas blinks the tears back, sighing shakily. Detached, he reminds himself. “He made me say it while they cut me. They put their names on me.”

“I know, Cas.” Dean says it gently, so gently. Castiel wants to cry and hide, but neither is going to help this situation, so he forces himself to keep talking instead. 

“Phanuel was the last. The others were just causing pain, but he…” He trails off, ashamed to even think it. If only it had just been more torture.

“Cas. You don’t have to say it.” Dean’s trying to give him a way out of the conversation. He doesn’t understand.

“Yes I do, Dean.” Cas whispers, curling away from his arms. The warmth of the hunter's soul calls him back, but he doesn’t deserve it, not right now. 

Dean lets him move away easily, but looks after him with a troubled frown.

“If you have to talk then you should,” he agrees. “Talk to me.”

Cas leans against the cold wall of the room, his wings aching. His chest feels tight. It’s vivid, the memory of it.

_Phanuel is on top of him, the heat and weight of his body smothering. Cas’s hands are tied still, held above his head by Nakir, and Jequn and Zephon each have hold of one of his ankles. He can’t move. He can hardly breathe._

Everything’s blurring from the bathroom floor to the dirty warehouse. He can’t stay detached, not from this. 

He describes it to Dean anyway. The words spill out, one after another, and he can’t stop until it’s over.

_The others have all done what they wanted, and his body hurts. He can still feel their violation. Their names sting sharply on the insides of his legs. The marks of their hands are bruised onto him. His split bottom lip throbs; he’s given up on spitting out the blood anymore._

_He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Hours? Days?_

_Through the shades of pain, Phanuel’s touch is one intense, overwhelming point of pleasure — and Castiel’s body is betraying him. He’s hard in Phanuel’s hand, which is wrapped around them both and moving in a torturous steady slide. There’s no way to escape it._

_“Phanuel, please,” he gasps out, desperate as the tension builds and builds between them. He can’t…he doesn’t want to, he doesn’t want to. Not like this, not with him._

_“Please what? Stop?” Cas tries to turn his head away, but they won’t even allow that — Nakir forces him to face Phanuel again. His old friend. “Go on, beg me again. My vessel says he hates this, but I can feel how much he loves it. I can FEEL it, Castiel.” His breath is hot on Cas’s cheek, laughter as he rolls his hips and Cas gasps. “He’s filthy like you.”_

_Cas wants to protest, but when he opens his mouth a frantic sound comes out instead, a moan of forced pleasure. There’s no way out._

_He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t…_

_They both spill all over Phanuel’s fingers, hot and wet, and despite everything, it feels good. After all of the pain, it feels AMAZING. Phanuel is half-gasping, half-laughing at him, and Cas is reeling, awash in pleasure. He can hear himself moaning, and he’s repulsed by it._

_How can any part of him want this?_

_That is disgusting._

_“You enjoyed that, didn’t you? This primitive, animal act, you LOVED it.” Phanuel brings his hand to Castiel’s face, smearing a wet trail over his lips with his thumb. The scent of sex mingles with the blood in Cas’s mouth and makes his stomach clench._

_He looks up at the other angel, and something in him breaks._

_This can’t be washed off. It can’t be taken back. It’s as permanent as the names carved into his grace._

_Sam and Dean would be disgusted, too._

“Cas!” Dean’s voice cuts through, hoarse like ripped paper. Cas hears him, but he can’t respond. He’s breaking over and over in his mind, shattering in the moment. Dean is here, but so is Phanuel — he’s still pressing down on Cas’s chest, demanding gratitude for what he’s done.

_“Don’t be ungrateful, Castiel. Say it.”_

“Cas, come back, buddy…” Dean’s talking over the angel now, but his voice is a painful reminder that Phanuel is right. Sam and Dean don’t want him. He’s disgusting.

_“Say it.”_

“Thank you,” Cas says, emptily. There’s no use fighting the truth.

“Cas, look at me. You’re safe at home with me.”

Home?

Cas blinks slowly and finds himself looking up into green eyes. Dean’s cupping his face in both hands, resting his forehead against the angel’s. The way his soul blazes with fury and sorrow pulls Castiel back to the present. They’re sitting on the cold bathroom floor. His wings hurt terribly from battering them against the walls.

Phanuel’s gone, and Dean's still here.  


* * *

  
There are feathers on the hallway floor. Sam follows them from the empty bedroom down the hall, scared of what he’ll find. Did Cas have another panic attack? Could he have hurt Dean without meaning to?

The trail leads to the open door of one of the hallway bathrooms. Soft voices come from inside.

“I’m here. I’m right here, Cas.” Dean’s voice is thick, choked. “You did it, okay? You told me everything.”

“No,” Cas replies brokenly. “There’s more.”

Sam steps around the edge of the doorframe to find them both sitting on the floor. Dean’s cradling the angel’s face in both hands, Cas looking up into his eyes. He looks so tired and sad.

“My wings,” the angel whispers. Dean shakes his head a little. 

“You can tell me that part later.”

Sam approaches quietly, sinking to sit beside them. He doesn’t know what to say that could possibly help, so he rests a hand against Castiel’s back. His wings are laid out behind him on the floor, a few feathers scattered around. Maybe they hurried here.

“Sam,” Cas whispers, looking up at him. He’s too pale, his hair a curling mess across his forehead. His eyes look huge and blue in the dim light from the hallway. “You deserve to know, too,” he says guiltily. “Everything.”

“I’ll tell him, Cas. You don’t have to say that again,” Dean says. He exchanges a look with Sam, a promise to explain later. There’s such pain in that look. Who knows what he’s just heard.

“No, Dean. Didn’t you hear me?” Cas pulls away from their hands, scooting back against the wall. He’s visibly shaking now, even his wings trembling out to his sides. “I enjoyed it. Some…some revolting part of me wanted this. You shouldn’t even want to touch me. Don’t touch me!”

“Cas…”

There’s heartbreak on Dean’s face. Sam wonders again what Cas described. 

For now he’s heard enough — this’s all too familiar, and he has to help. He turns and holds his hands out, trying to catch the angel’s line of sight.

“Cas, look at me.” It takes a moment, but he slowly lifts his eyes to meet Sam’s. There’s a sea of pain and shame in that gaze. Sam wants to touch him, comfort him, but words are what Cas needs right now.

“This? It’s not your fault,” Sam says softly. Some days he still has to tell himself the same thing. “No matter what you did, it’s not your fault. It doesn’t matter if it felt good. Doesn’t matter if your body played along. Bodies do that, that doesn’t mean you wanted it.” 

Cas huffs out a tiny sob, hanging his head.

“I-I didn’t! I didn’t want to. I didn’t.” He sounds like he’s pleading with them.

“We know you didn’t,” Dean promises, reaching for one of his hands. Sam takes the other, and Cas doesn’t retreat this time — he clings to them both. 

“I’m s-sorry…”

“It's okay, Cas. Like Sammy said, not your fault.” Dean’s scooting closer to the angel’s side. Cas slides one arm up to wrap around his neck, burying his face in the front of his flannel shirt. Dean holds him and whispers to him, and Sam wonders if there’s any truth to what the other angels assumed. 

Does Dean love Cas too? Do they have any right to talk to Cas about that right now?


	7. Love

Talking about Phanuel brought back every horrible detail. It feels like it all just happened. Cas is trembling and hurting, his throat and eyes sore from crying, and he feels as small as his vessel. Something’s different this time, though.

Sam and Dean are here.

Dean heard every ugly detail, and he hasn’t faltered one bit. It’s not Cas’s fault, he says. Sam didn’t even hear it all, but he seems to understand perfectly anyway. Cas didn’t want it, Sam says.

The soft bed and Sam’s arms around him couldn’t be further from the cold warehouse. Where before his wings were pierced by blades, now Dean’s hands are touching them so gently, and if it hurts it’s only to see that nothing’s broken.

He can’t help a small gasp or two, especially when Dean touches his right wing. He’s leaned up against Sam’s chest, and tries to muffle them in the hunter’s shirt, at least.

“Just a little more, Cas,” Sam whispers, trying to comfort him. He’s resting his cheek against the angel’s hair and has both arms around him, and his soul is soothing with all of its familiar scars. The burn of it almost hurts, but it feels like safety. 

Cas shivers and presses closer to Sam, afraid the hunter will try to pull away to look at his face. He needs to stay close — they’re grounding him. Behind him, the way Dean’s soul is blazing makes Cas want to look back and see if it shows on his face — that furious, agonizing, roiling center all wrapped in tenderness. He and Sam both feel upset, but only inwardly. Outwardly, they’re being nothing but kind to him. They probably think that’s all he can see of them right now.

Such good men, the best men he’s ever known. They’re brief, bright, amazing things, and Cas can’t help how much he loves them.

Sam’s hand runs slowly down his back, and the angel takes a deep breath, trying not to shiver so much. He just wants to lay down with them both. They have to be exhausted, but here they are with him instead of sleeping. He bites his lip as Dean’s hand brushes another sore spot, trying not to make a sound.

“Cas… You’d tell us if you didn’t want to be touched, wouldn’t you?” Sam must have taken the reaction the wrong way, because he sounds concerned. Cas feels a thread of panic at the thought of letting go of him right now, but reluctantly sits back so that Sam can see his face.

“From you and Dean, it’s…it’s a comfort,” he admits, keeping his eyes downcast. He must look so red-eyed and beaten down and broken that he’s not sure how Sam can even look at him.

Big hands come to rest on the sides of his neck, fingers wrapping around behind it, thumbs cradling his jaw. Castiel lifts his head to find Sam just an inch away, and as he does, Sam leans in to gently rest their foreheads against each other.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, hurt and sympathy in those hazel eyes. The warmth of his soul is covering Castiel like a sunbeam, intense but welcome and bright. He feels such longing to move in, tilt his chin, let their lips touch… 

Sam must be able to see some of the emotions in his eyes, because he does his best to smile. “Cas, you know how much you mean to us, don’t you?”

Less than they mean to him, he’s sure. Cas’s eyes instantly lower, in shame, in guilt, but Sam’s thumbs caress his cheeks, and he looks up again slowly. 

“You’re family. This doesn’t change that,” Sam promises him. “Okay? We’re gonna get through this together.”

Cas gazes up at him, and hearing that they think of him as ‘family’, something platonic, should hurt. Instead he’s grateful. They may not want him, but they want him here. They’re not disgusted, they care if he’s suffering. Nobody has ever particularly cared about that before. Heaven certainly didn’t.

“Thank you, Sam,” Cas whispers. 

_I love you, Sam,_ he thinks.

“Nothing feels broken,” Dean says softly, finally finishing his careful inspection of both of Cas’s wings. “I know the usual painkillers don’t work for you, but the strong stuff might — I’m gonna try, okay Cas?”

Cas keeps his eyes on Sam rather than trying to look back at Dean.

“Okay,” he says.

There’s a rustle and click as Dean pulls out the first aid kit. Sam’s gaze flicks that way over Castiel’s shoulder, then back down to the angel’s face. Cas is still trembling. He hardly feels the sting of the shot Dean gives him — it’s not even pain compared to the rest of him, the tiny pinpoint on his back between his wings.

“Sorry,” Dean says anyway, and smooths a small bandaid over the mark it left. Castiel’s grace is still so weak that it probably won’t heal very fast.

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas whispers, swallowing. Sam’s still steadying him, hands resting warm against the sides of his neck.

The shot kicks in quickly. The sudden lack of pain in Castiel’s back and both wings is such a relief that it’s staggering. He blinks up at Sam and then his eyelids are falling heavily closed. It’s almost frightening — he can’t seem to will himself to open them again.

“Sam,” he mumbles, unable to hide his bewilderment. “I-I may…sleep.”

Sam’s thumbs caress against the curve of his jaw, soothing as he starts to drift. Dean’s hands are on him, too, resting warm and steady against his back. He can feel the glow of both brothers’ souls, and it anchors him in the darkness.

“That’s okay, it’s okay to sleep,” Sam reassures him. “Strong painkillers make people drowsy.” 

“It’s okay, Cas,” Dean promises too. “How’s the pain? Better?”

Cas can hardly muster the will to respond. At some point he must have slumped against Sam, because when he nods it feels like it’s hitting the taller man’s shoulder. Their souls are so warm. Safe and warm.

“Gonna help you lay down, okay?” Dean sounds so far away. Cas can’t tell if he says “okay” in return or just thinks about it.

 _Dean,_ he thinks, drifting further away, _I love…_  


* * *

  
When Dean gets no response to his question after a moment, he nods to Sam. The brothers carefully lower Castiel to the bed, Sam supporting his body while Dean lays out his dark wings as gently as possible. Mercifully, Cas is out like a light and doesn’t feel any jostling. A quick peek at the bandages on his thighs shows that he didn’t tear any stitches — at least not badly enough to bleed through the gauze.

Sam tucks the blankets in around Cas after that, wondering what to do now. They could sleep. They’re exhausted, too. He doesn’t want to leave Castiel’s side, though.

Maybe he’s delirious, or empathizing too much. Maybe he’s crazy. All Sam knows is that he could call his feelings a crush when he was alone in the library, but being right beside Cas, looking into his eyes…

It’s love.

He loves Castiel. Not the fluffy rom-com type of love, or the cliche romance novel kind. When Cas is hurting, he can hardly breathe. When he was comforting the angel, Sam felt the overwhelming need to show him something besides pain. He’d wanted to kiss him, lay down with him — give all of the gentle, tender things that Cas deserves to have.

Cas looks on the verge of breaking, though. He seems so small and pale and muted. It’s breaking Sam’s heart all over again, and the thought of any action of his making that worse… 

He can’t do it. 

It wouldn’t be fair to make Cas deal with Sam’s feelings right now. He’s clinging to them as the only people he can trust. Sam can’t break that trust, he can’t risk Cas thinking of him as a threat. Right now sex and romance must seem disturbing to Cas. How could they not? He’s probably so comforted by Sam and Dean because they’re “family” — platonic. Safe.

So Sam doesn’t know what to do. 

Dean makes the decision for him. After standing there awhile in silence, he turns and heads straight out the door and down the hallway.

Sam’s been so focused on Cas that he didn’t consider how his brother’s doing. Dean heard all of the details of the attack, and he’s been extra quiet since. It makes Sam sick to think about what Cas might have told him, but he has to know. 

Standing and taking one last look at Cas, bundled in blankets and bandages and merciful unconsciousness, Sam follows his brother down the hall and into the kitchen. 

Dean’s at the counter downing a shot of whiskey by the time Sam reaches him. He immediately starts pouring another.

“Dean.” Sam’s not sure what to say, here. He’s not sure he wants to know what Cas said.

Dean shoots the second little glass and turns to look at him, barely swallowing down the tears this time.

“Sam.”

Sam steps over to stand beside him, looking at the whiskey bottle. He can’t blame Dean for that. He can still hear Cas crying in his head, crying their names, saying that he didn’t want to.

“It was because of us, wasn’t it?” He asks, the words coming out thick. If this is their fault, he doesn’t know how they can redeem themselves. The way Cas talked about them not wanting him, though, the fact that that subject came up while the others were doing what they were doing…

Dean doesn’t answer him.

“It was,” Sam concludes.

“No reason makes this right,” his brother replies finally, sounding frayed. The light from above the counter glints in his eyes as he shakes his head. “There’s only one way to make it right, Sam.”  


* * *

  
There’s so much going through Dean’s head right now. The whiskey is failing to take away the pain, but he hopes it’ll help him sleep. He’ll need to be rested if he’s going to find Phanuel and the others and wipe out every last one of them.

“They did this because they think he loves us, Dean.” Sam is too tired to be subtle, apparently — he grabs Dean’s shoulder, frowning down at him. “And because they must think we love him back.”

Dean just looks at him, torn between feeling numb and furious. Cas isn’t Heaven’s to punish anymore, not for anything. The evidence is there in what Cas said, though — he said Phanuel talked to him the whole time. ‘They don’t want me’ must have been something Cas was saying to him, about them.

“They’re right about me, at least,” Sam confesses, letting go of him. He looks down at the whiskey bottle and sighs.

Dean’s exhausted, but still, the whiskey can’t be hitting him that hard already. He blinks and frowns slowly.

“…You love Cas, Sammy?”

Sam looks at him with such pain in his eyes that Dean feels it in his chest. He can tell it’s the truth before his brother says anything. This…explains a lot, actually. He’s not sure why he’s surprised.

“Yes,” Sam confirms. “I-I just can’t talk to him about that right now, he shouldn’t have to worry about that. Now I’ve got to know if they’re right about you, too, Dean, or i-if they did this to Cas just because of me.” He’s struggling to even say it like that, unshed tears shining in his eyes. 

Dean blinks at him and starts to shake his head, but then stops himself. He can’t deny he’s thought about it before, him and Cas. The angel gave up everything for them. He’s always said he’s bonded with Dean, a ‘profound’ bond that Dean assumed was some sort of Heaven terminology about pulling him out of Hell. 

Maybe not. Maybe Cas just…loves him. 

Dean has thought about kissing him a few times. How Cas would react, whether it would be welcome. He can’t see Cas being angry about it — at worst, confused, with that little head tilt like a bird that he always does.

Seeing Cas the way he’s been since they brought him home, it’s killing Dean one second at a time. He can’t stand it when Cas is hurting any more than he can stand it when Sam is. That’s why he’s thought of Cas as a brother, as family. It’s complicated, though. He sure hasn’t ever thought about kissing Sam.

Does he love Cas? How can the other angels know if he isn’t even sure?

“I don’t know,” he admits finally, guiltily.

Sam seems crushed by Dean’s answer. He puts a hand over his mouth and leans heavily back against the counter. Dean leans beside him, looking down at the floor. Nothing he can say would make it better, what’s hurting Sam. 

After a few minutes and deep breaths, his brother sits up.

“What did he tell you?” He asks, a little choked. “He said to tell me.”

Dean’s stomach twists at the things Cas was saying to him on that cold bathroom floor. He can’t repeat some of those things. Sam thinks this is his fault somehow — how can Dean tell him how violent this was? That Cas was choking on his own blood, that every one of them… It’s making him sick to even think back on it.

“He said…” 

Dean shakes his head, hearing Cas’s voice narrating it all like it happened to someone else. Until Phanuel — there was no detachment there. That was torture to watch.

“It was bad, Sam. Really bad.” 

He tries to do what Cas did, and stays detached as he tells his brother the gist of what happened. The beating and torn clothes. The rope and hands always holding him down. The multiple rapes. Phanuel making Cas believe he might have wanted it. Dean explains it all, and the whiskey’s starting to fuzz at the edges of his mind, making it bearable to say these painful things.

By the time he gets to the part Sam arrived during, his brother’s crying.

“God, Cas… This’s my f-fault, they can feel longing, they f-felt how I…”

Dean turns and grips his shoulders tight.

“No,” he growls, “It’s not. We’re all Cas’s got right now, Sam, and we’re the only ones who can end the bastards who did this. You with me?”

Sam looks at him guiltily, tears on his face. 

“Research was a bust,” he sniffles. “No closer to f-finding them than before.”

“I’ve got a way,” Dean says grimly. “But I need you, Sam. Are you with me?”

Sam immediately nods, swiping at his eyes.

“Wh-what’s the plan?”

“First we sleep,” Dean says. Sam’s already about to protest, so he adds, “Just a few hours, we should do this smart and be rested.”

Sam closes his mouth at that, nodding quietly. 

“Then what?”

“Then meet me in the armory.”


End file.
